Nonexistent Mistletoe
by bodiechan
Summary: To show their gratitude, Aziraphale and Crowley throw a Christmas party for all those who helped them to thwart Armageddon. But when the Horsepersons show up uninvited, all doesn't necesarily go according to plan.


_It's no longer Christmas, I know. I may identify more with Aziraphale than Crowley, but I procrastinate like Hell._

* * *

><p>The sleek black car made three stops in-between its departure and its destination. One, to the residence of a famous journalist, a tall woman in a tight, short bombshell dress with blazing red hair. Two, to the airport to pick up a serious thin man in a black suit, just off a plane from America. Three, to the messiest flat in London, where a young man dressed all in white slid into the car—but first he took off his crown.<p>

The driver's coat collar covered the bottom half of his face, and a black fedora was pulled down over his eyes.

"I love parties," Pollution said to fill the silence, bouncing a little on the edge of his seat. "So much waste, you know? So many chances to dirty someone's home. They're lovely."

War, wedged in the middle between him and Famine, nodded brightly, her eyes gleaming along with her smile. "People always get into fights this time of year. All that excitement can translate into holiday cheer, but also build up into frustration." She looked over to her left, where the man in the suit leaned his chin on his hand and stared out the window at the rain. "What do you think, Famine?"

"Huh?" Famine looked up at her, lifting his head an inch from his fingers. If there was any rosiness to his cheeks instead of endless thin pallor, she might have seen him blush. Pollution noticed, though. "Oh, I… people eat too much at parties."

War gave him a playful hit to the shoulder, which actually hurt a lot more than he was willing to admit. "You're no fun! There's got to be _something_ you like about them."

Famine shrugged slightly, trying both desperately to look her in the eye and to not look like he was staring. "There aren't many opportunities for food deprivation at parties. Maybe I could guilt people into thinking they're overeating and have them end up under-eating instead, but…"

War rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. That's so small-minded. I bet I could have the entire party in chaos before dessert."

Famine exhaled uncomfortably. "It's not small-minded. It's just the truth. I'm much better suited for business than parties. Mass starvation just isn't _fun_."

Pollution looked over War at him, expression innocently concerned like a child's. "Don't _you_ think starvation is fun?"

Famine shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose. I mean, the alternative is disgusting, humans are completely over-decadent and entirely letting themselves go as a species, but… I don't know. Endorsing anorexia doesn't make you a lot of friends at parties."

"But we're not trying to make _friends_." War looked unconvinced and impatient, her mouth curled into a tiny pout that Famine found entirely too attractive. "These are _humans_ we're talking about. We exist to ruin them. That's our _job_."

"Seems kinda rude to go to a party and ruin the people there," Famine mumbled.

War hit him again. "What's gotten into you? Are you depressed or something? You're being so _nice_. What happened to the guy who always glares at me whenever I try to eat and calls me fat all the time while other guys are drooling at me?"

Famine rubbed his sore shoulder a tad irritably. "I'm not in the mood."

Still dissatisfied, War settled back into her seat. "You're no fun today, Sabe. Loosen up. Make the harvest fail in some third-world country. It'll make you feel better."

"I was going to," Famine pointed out somewhat sourly, "until your war in Kumbolaland made all the humans there destroy the crops themselves."

War waved his bitterness away. "Then some other country. You haven't been to Europe in a while. You've been spending entirely too much time in America."

Famine perked up a bit, purposefully misinterpreting this as her wanting to keep him close. "I like America. Half the people there think starving themselves is a good idea, and the other half are morbidly obese and are going to kill themselves off with heart disease anyway."

"Doesn't sound like you need to be there then," War warned. "They'll do it all by themselves."

Famine shrugged pleasantly. "I'm trying to make it so _all_ of them think that starving themselves is a good idea. Isn't it funny when a fat person starves to death?"

"I think it's funnier when they get shot," War pouted.

"I like food poisoning," Pollution piped up from across the seat.

"You would," Famine groaned. "Everyone in this car has such a one-track mind. Me included, I suppose."

I DON'T, came a voice from the front. I'M JUST WATCHING THE ROAD.

"Anyway," War went on impatiently, once Death was done, "I think you two are starting to slack, and it's annoying me. What would you say to a little bet?"

Pollution looked up curiously. Famine lifted his head. "Hn?"

War grinned, her smile sharp and white as a blade. "Whoever can cause the most trouble at the party tonight wins a free favor from the other two."

Pollution let out a little happy gasp, clasping his hands together excitedly. "Oh, that sounds like so much _fun_!"

"Whatever," Famine mumbled, turning back to the window, already resigned to defeat. "But I reserve the right to refuse that favor if it involves me eating, ever."

Pollution frowned suddenly. "Or me if it involves baths."

WE'RE HERE, Death announced.

They pulled up to the little house just as the rain started to drift from a downpour into a soft, slow trickle of wet. Death parallel-parked the car nicely next to some trees.

The cottage door was opened by a tubby, middle-aged blonde man wearing possibly the ugliest sweater—somehow managing to be both tartan and argyle all at the same time—that any of the Horsepersons had ever seen.

The man in said sweater did not look happy to see them. In fact, he paled and looked suddenly quite alarmed. "Oh… I suppose Crowley invited you then, did he?" he asked politely but nervously, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The Horsepersons ignored him and swept into the party. I LIKE YOUR SWEATER, Death stopped to add.

For just a moment Aziraphale brightened. "Oh, why thank you! Crowley hates it, I think, even though he's too polite to say so, bless his little demon heart, but I remember where I bought it if you want one and I'm sure one day I just easily could nip down to—"

Death was not listening and had already immersed himself in the crowd. Though he did, honestly, truly enjoy that sweater.

A small, polite crowd had gathered in the back of the room around the retired Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, who was animatedly telling a story and waving his hands through the air, alternately shouting and speaking in a dramatic whisper. Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Anathema were gathered on the floor around his feet with wide, entranced eyes, knowing plain well that the story was all lies but fascinated by the apparent insanity of this man. Madam Tracy sat next to him in a rocking chair, listening politely, though she had heard this story at least twice before and all three times had been wildly different in detail.

The only ones not listening to Shadwell were Newt and Wensleydale, the two of which were immersed in a heated but very polite debate about some kind of mechanical appliance that Wensley had just successfully built and as a child Newt had miserably failed to.

"I just don't understand," Newt complained. "The manual _said_ you had to connect the red wires to the switch on the left. I remember that so clearly, and I _did_ it, just as the instructions said. How could it have worked when you connected them to the switch on the right?"

Wensley shrugged and straightened his glasses importantly. "I guess I'm just smarter than the manual," he announced proudly, feeling very intelligent now.

Crowley walked in from the kitchen and jerked his finger behind him. "Hey, everyone. Dinner's ready. You can all go help yourself."

Anathema got up from the floor and led the Them minus Wensleydale into the kitchen to help them get their food. Shadwell grumbled something indiscernible about witchcraft and followed Madam Tracy in as well.

Pollution consented to drop various pieces of litter that he always had handy in his pockets on the floor of the various rooms of the house.

When Aziraphale noticed this and started bending down contentiously to pick up each one, Pollution cheerfully kicked over the trashcan.

War nudged Famine, who was sort of staring into space while really staring at her out of the corner of his eye, and grinned at him, certainly getting his attention. "Watch this," she whispered, and set off in her violently beautiful way for the other side of the room.

"You had to set up the black wiring _before_ you plugged the whole thing in," Wensley was patiently explaining with the air of a professor to a particularly slow student. "Otherwise the whole thing will blow up in your face."

"I _told_ you, I _did_ that and it _still_ didn't work! You're not helping at all!" Newt snapped in response, his words coming out very uncharacteristically sharp. Then he blinked, shook his head and looked down at the calm boy apologetically. "I'm… sorry I just shouted. I don't know what came over me."

That was when he noticed War. Grinning in her short, black bombshell dress, with her wild red hair and irresistible scent of beautiful danger.

"I did, sweetie," she said softly, pulling him close to her by the shirt collar. Newt had no choice but to be yanked forward, startled beyond words. He'd never been seduced by anyone before. She whispered the words into his frightened ear. "Do you realize we're standing under mistletoe?"

He looked up, half elated and half terrified, at the hanging greenery above him. He could feel War's breath on his face. Before he could respond, she'd kissed him.

Famine did not look pleased.

Neither did Anathema, who had just returned from the kitchen.

Newt pulled away from War abruptly, but the damage was done.

Anathema slammed her plate down onto the floor, turned dramatically on her heel, and stomped away.

There was a silence. Then: "Damn," Newt mumbled weakly, face paler than Pollution's white ensemble of clothes. "What did I just do?"

Grinning, War left the stammering Newt under the mistletoe and stalked back to Famine's side. A vein was throbbing in his temple, but she just smiled. She liked making people mad, even other Horsepersons. "See? Party ruined. Ten seconds flat."

Wensleydale left poor Newt as well and trotted over to join the rest of the Them, huddled in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. "This is bad," he announced unnecessarily, a bright boy but always one for pointing out the obvious.

Adam nodded seriously. "We should try and fix this."

"I'll talk to Mr. Pulsifer," Wensleydale agreed. "Perhaps I can get him to make things right with that woman."

Adam nodded again. "I'll talk to Anathema, since I know her best."

Pepper's eyes suddenly gleamed, her expression set and tough. "I'll take the other one. Somehow I get the feeling I've beaten her before."

With a curt nod at each of their assignments, the Them began to disperse.

"Wait a minute," Brian suddenly realized. "What'm I supposed to do?"

No one answered him. Brian stood there, dejected and forever alone.

Speaking of forever alone, Famine was sulking. War stood next to him, gloating and smug, grinning about whatever favor she planned to extract from him and the absent Pollution—and grinning about the way she'd kissed someone else. Famine's heart was breaking. He mumbled some excuse and stalked off into the kitchen, hoping that if he could at least scare a couple people away from second helpings the night wouldn't be a total waste.

The kitchen was alone except for Aziraphale, cheerfully loading his plate with food from the small buffet set up on the counter. "Do you want anything?" he asked good-naturedly, pointing to the table with a polite smile.

Famine scowled. "Oh, please. Food is vile. Do you think I would ever subject myself to the stuff if I don't have to?"

Aziraphale shrugged lightly and turned his attention back to gathering dinner. "To each his own, I always say."

Famine wrinkled his nose. "You do realize _you_ don't need to eat the stuff either."

"Of course," Aziraphale replied absently. "But it's one of the world's pleasures that I happen to enjoy."

"I think we all know that," Famine snapped, his increasingly bad temper only growing worse. "Just look at how much you're eating. It's perfectly disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself. Keep this up and soon you're going to be—"

But then Crowley stepped swiftly between the two, expression cool and unamused. "Don't you dare speak to my angel that way. _You_ should be ashamed of yourself."

Famine blinked at him, surprise overcoming his anger. "It's… it's my job."

"Yes, I know. But I'm a demon and even I know _some_ manners." Crowley's words were short and impatient. Aziraphale gazed out from behind him with big, wondrous eyes. "You've tried to guilt my angel before and I'm not letting you do it again. It's his house—he has every right to eat whatever he wants. And anyway, Aziraphale invited you to this stupid Christmas party because he's too polite to turn away even people he hates, so the least you could do would be to show some respect."

Both Famine and Aziraphale seemed quite taken aback by this speech. "Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale murmured. "I was quite sure _you_ invited them."

WE REQUIRE NO INVITATION, Death explained, lolling in the doorframe of the kitchen. WE ARE EVERYWHERE.

"Crowley, for a demon, you're absolutely no fun," Famine mumbled, completely dejected now. He stalked off back into the living room. Soundlessly, Death followed.

Crowley watched them go, muttering some frustrated insults at the Horseperson's back. "_Bless_ you, Famine."

"I didn't sneeze," Aziraphale said mildly.

Crowley sighed. "It's not… never mind."

When the two men in black reentered the room, Shadwell raised an eyebrow and pulled Death aside with a glance. "Hey, ye"—he jabbed a finger at Death—"why do ye never show yer face? D'ye have sometin' to hide? 'Re ye a witch?"

As Famine walked grumpily away, Death surveyed Shadwell without expression. I AM NOT.

The retired sergeant seemed surprised by the deep penetrative quality of Death's voice. "If ye're not a witch, ye sure seem like one." He shook his fist harmlessly at him. "Ye sure seem like there be somethin' weird about ye."

Death sort of shrugged. I AM NOT EXACTLY USUAL DINNER COMPANY.

Shadwell nodded for a long time. "Yes, yes, well, o' course ye're not." He paused, unsure of how to go on, and his eyes wandered to the grinning War across the room. He quickly looked away, shaking his head again. "There be lots o' weird things goin' on tonight…"

YES, Death agreed pleasantly. MY FRIENDS ARE NOT EXACTLY NORMAL EITHER.

Shadwell gave him a hard look. "Yeah, I'd say that. And they're not exactly doin' much for the love life o' certain people in the room, if ye understand what I'm sayin'."

Death shrugged again. TO BE HONEST, I'VE NEVER REALLY UNDERSTOOD LOVE.

Shadwell gave a little start. "Blast it! How can ye never understand love? What's life without love, I say, eh?"

Death blinked. I AM DEATH.

"Oh," Shadwell meekly replied.

Standing a few feet away from him, Brian was making sad faces at the rest of the Them who didn't seem to notice. "'m all alone. How is this fair?"

"How's what fair, dear?"

He looked up to find Madam Tracy smiling pleasantly down at him. "Oh, hey. My friends just kinda abandoned me is all. Nothing important or anything."

"Now that's perfectly awful," the old woman said with a frown. "Friends shouldn't do that to friends."

Brian shrugged. "They all have these special mission things or somethin'. And I'm stuck here doin' nothing 'cause they ran out of jobs."

"Well." Madam Tracy shifted on her chair, making room for another small body. "Would you like to sit and talk to me for a while? I don't have anything to do either, and you seem like a charming young man."

Brian shrugged and accepted the seat. "Might as well. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, dearie."

Meanwhile, across the room, Pepper jabbed War on the back, hard and sharp. War turned with mild surprise. No one ever dared pick fights with _her_.

She smiled, however, when she saw the little red-haired girl she remembered from the power plant. "Oh, hello. Here for a rematch, are we?"

"We need to talk," Pepper said seriously, expression set like stone. "What you did to Newton Pulsifer was just _wrong_."

War raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, amused by the fire in this young girl who barely came up to her chest. "Sweetie, come on. He was practically asking for it. And it's really none of your business who I kiss, now is it?" Her eyes gleamed. "All's fair, as they say, in love and war."

Pepper wasn't budging. "He has a girlfriend."

"Then he should have thought of that before he stood all alone under the mistletoe," War crooned.

"Those are all stupid excuses and you know it," Pepper spat. "Stay away from him. He has Anathema, she's _twice_ the person you are."

War's eyes flashed dangerously, but she smiled. "So that's how we're going to play this, hmm? Like a fight? I do like fights." She paused for a moment and placed her hands delicately on her hips, studying the girl in front of her with an expert's eye. "You know, I always knew you reminded me of me. And it's not the red hair either." Pepper did not look amused. "There's a certain fieriness to you that I like in a woman. And you know, if you ever had the desire to spend time with someone more powerful, do something more exciting with your life…" She leaned closer, practically brushing the words against Pepper's ear. "If the two of us teamed up, we'd be _unstoppable_."

But Pepper stepped pointedly away, making a face like War was contagious. "Not a chance. I have the Them, and I don't need anybody else."

Adam, on the other hand, had trotted off to look for Anathema. She was eventually to be found in the bedroom upstairs, standing and staring at the bed. "Tartan sheets," she pointed out when Adam entered the room. "Where do you even _buy_ those?"

"I'm sure Aziraphale found a way," Adam said lightly. "If any store in the world sells tartan anything, I'm sure he's found it."

Anathema made a face. "But doesn't Crowley live here too?"

"I'm also sure that Aziraphale is the one who buys the family linens," Adam remarked.

Anathema smiled. "Rather strange people, aren't they? I like them."

Adam nodded. "Strange is good, most of the time." There was a pleasant pause as the two of them shared their agreement. Then: "Except for those four people who weren't invited."

Anathema's expression immediately darkened. "Three of them are okay." Her tone was sharp and bitter. "Newt's a little too fond of the fourth one."

"You know that was completely her fault," Adam explained. "_She_ kissed _him_. He just stood there and took it because he's Newt."

Anathema sighed lightly. "Oh, I know. I just sometimes wish he was a little more… assertive. But I love him anyway." Her eyes wandered to the door. "I suppose the right thing to do would be to go downstairs again and make up with him now."

Adam nodded encouragingly. "Oh, yes. It would be."

Anathema motioned at him, smiling brightly again now. "Come on."

The witch and the antichrist rejoined the party together to find Newt fumbling, still under the mistletoe, with his tie. Anathema walked up to him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Hey." From behind him, Wensleydale gave Adam a thumbs-up.

The two boys wandered over to Pepper, who was making gagging faces. "That lady's so creepy I can't even tell you. But yeah, I don't think she'll be going near him again anytime soon."

"Good," said Adam with a firm smile, and the three turned to watch Newt splutter and stumble his way through an unnecessary apology, and then to watch Anathema kiss him.

The Them cheered.

War's gaze darkened. But she was not the kind of creature to back down. Spinning and twirling in her dangerous way, she found herself soon at Shadwell's side.

"So, 's Life a friend o' yers?" he was asking Death.

Ignoring this, War's hands found the line of Shadwell's chin, turning her body in a way so that she could be sure Madam Tracy could see. "Hello there."

Shadwell just blinked. "Wha? 'Re ye a witch? What trickery 's this that yer up to now, heathen?"

"I'm a witch, perhaps," War cooed, "but I'm a very attractive one."

SCARLETT, Death said warningly. DON'T GET CARRIED AWAY.

Madam Tracy, instead of jealous, was cocking her head at them in a way that just looked confused.

Famine was glaring desperately at the wall.

Oblivious, Pollution hopped happily to Famine's side. "Hey! Are you having fun?"

"Of course not," Famine snapped icily, not moving his eyes except to waver every few moments back to her. "I told you, I hate parties."

Pollution frowned. "Oh, come on! But this is so much fun! Is something in particular wrong?"

Famine scowled. "People are…" War. Trying to kiss Shadwell. Trying to seduce every man she saw. It wasn't just a plot to ruin the party. It was a message too. _I can kiss whomever I want because I'm not in love with anyone. _

_Especially not you._

"Everyone's eating far too much," he barked, and stormed from the room.

Madam Tracy also got up from her chair, but for a very different reason. "Oh, now, stop this nonsense, both of you." Shadwell and War both looked up with considerable surprise. "Shadwell dear, she's obviously not a witch. Scarlett honey, he's clearly not interested."

War stepped away from Shadwell, eyes on Madam Tracy and expression clean-cut, cold. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because he's already got me, you silly." Madam Tracy approached Shadwell instead, who could do nothing but give her a deer-in-headlights sort of awe. "And you're too young for him anyway."

War thought it was a bit pointless to express her agelessness at this point. They were already kissing anyway. From the chair, Brian smiled.

Pollution waited the moment out before slipping into the kitchen and then out the house door.

Famine was seated on the stoop with a plate of cake in his lap, leaning backwards on his hands and watching the tiny flakes of snow fall around him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked softly. Famine's back was to him, but Pollution nodded. "I like winter. There's something _clean_ about winter."

Pollution breathed in. "I don't like clean."

"And that's why we're different." Famine nodded subtly at the seat on the stoop next to him, and Pollution took it.

Pollution's eyes couldn't help but stray to the cake. "What is that?"

"Oh, this?" Famine moved the plate onto the step behind him with a small chuckle that could almost be taken as embarrassed. "Humans seem to find food so comforting, don't they? I thought there might be something to that. Pity there's not."

"But you hate food," Pollution said with some concern.

"Yes, but…" Famine turned to Pollution with gentle eyes. "Have you ever been drawn to the very opposite of what you're supposed to be? You're supposed to be Pollution, but have you ever felt a love for clean? Sometimes I feel drawn to things I hate, and hate and love get all confused in my head."

"It's because we're hateful," Pollution agreed. "The things we love are the things everyone hates."

"Yes. That." Famine sighed and stared out at the snow. "Sometimes it all does get wearisome. Sometimes I think War's the only of us who really _enjoys_ her job."

Pollution gave him a look reminiscent of a confused dog. "I like my job."

"Yes, I know. So do I. But have you ever just wanted to take a day off? Not be the _opposite_ of yourself. Not you clean up parks, or me donate food to third-world countries, but… just to think about something other than us, for a while."

Pollution scotched a bit closer. "You mean like to be human?"

Famine looked at him again, and he suddenly looked very tired. "Yes. Perhaps. Crowley and that angel have become so human, living on earth, that sometimes I wonder… why it's not possible for us to do the same."

"They're slacking on their jobs," Pollution pointed out. "It would be possible for us to be human. We'd just be slacking, like War said."

"Like War said." Famine's tone took a sudden turn for the bitter. He reached out a silent hand and let the snow fall onto it, turning his black suit sleeve white until it melted.

They watched this snow, quietly, for a moment.

"She doesn't love him," Pollution said suddenly. "Either of them. Pulsifer or Shadwell."

"I know," Famine said softly. "But she doesn't love me either."

Pollution placed a gentle white hand on Famine's firm black shoulder. "But I know someone who does."

Famine didn't know which he was more surprised about—the fact that Pollution finally kissed him, or the fact that a few seconds into the kiss Pollution burst into giggles.

In response to Famine's raised eyebrows, Pollution explained, "I never expected you to taste like cake."

Famine made a big show of rolling his eyes. "Shut up. You taste terrible."

The second kiss was longer. Uninterrupted. Sweet, even.

—

The guests trickled out of the cottage around the same time but in gentle waves. Brian was telling the other Them about all he'd learned about séances when Mr. Young drove up to take them all home. He waved goodbye cheerfully to Madam Tracy, who promised to stay in touch. Wensley gave a smug handshake of goodbye to Newt. Pepper's grin at War was even smugger.

NO, Death told Shadwell as he brushed his way to the car. I DON'T KNOW LIFE. BUT IF YOU MEET HIM, LET ME KNOW. I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW WHAT HE'S LIKE.

It took War and Death twenty minutes to find Pollution and Famine before they could leave. War started bragging about her, however brief, success, but she stopped pretty soon after she realized that neither of them were paying any attention to anything but each other.

"I suppose you found something about parties you actually do like?" War pouted huffily.

"I told you they were fun!" Pollution said happily, letting the tips of his long white hair drift to rest on Famine's shoulder.

The man in black smiled. "Oh, yes. Something I like very much."

Crowley watched the snow for a moment before closing the cottage door. "Well, that party was certainly more exciting than I'd expected," he remarked with a sly, snakeish smile. "I was worried it would be all ugly sweaters and fruitcake, but human drama is _so_ entertaining."

Aziraphale was not as pleased. "Crowley, there's trash all over the floor. And my sweater is fine." When he bent down to pick up a wrapper, however, Crowley caught his arm.

"Angel, look where we are," he breathed into the other, nodding his head in the ceiling's direction. "Look what we're standing under. Missssstletoe."

A shiver that wasn't entirely unpleasant shot through Aziraphale at the hiss, but when he looked up as well he frowned. "No, we're not. The mistletoe's all the way across the—" And then he stopped. Crowley had taken off his sunglasses, and Aziraphale smiled. "Oh, you old snake."

Death might not have known Love, either, but a certain angel and demon did.

And they met him and each other under the nonexistent mistletoe as the snow outside the windows swirled around them.


End file.
